


i might as well fling myself into your ocean, at least then i would be with you

by makomoris



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: A Kiss, Angst, Grudges, M/M, Mentions of Molly, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Wedding Rings, a bit of scuffling, mentions of Abigail, mentions of Bedelia, oh man they loooove each other, this is super big on will’s thoughts on hannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:22:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23783098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makomoris/pseuds/makomoris
Summary: After the fall, Will is a mess of emotions. Granted, that’s how it should be, if he was going to be on the run with Hannibal Lecter of all people.or will has a tiny grudge after the fall, but it stretches to something bigger in the recesses of his mind.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 15
Kudos: 264





	i might as well fling myself into your ocean, at least then i would be with you

**Author's Note:**

> i'm trying to get better at writing and re-watching hannibal has gotten me to that point and reminds me of why i love writing in the first place. that show is theee b e s t. all mistakes are my own. 
> 
> i miss abigail. her and bev's deaths are the things i can't justify fully in the series, because they are so so SO good. will and hannibal had a kid :( 
> 
> i also love bedelia !!! but as an fyi, this fic is a little bedelia-hating, but only for the purpose of will's pettiness :-) usual hannibal-typical violence about guts and hearts, etc. i hope u like ! and yeah im posting this at 2am because i need to get it out of my brain.
> 
> im the queen of run on sentences, baby

_so you jumped down from the cliff you climbed to  
into paradise that lay below you  
i could only stare  
and let my tears fall into the ocean_

*

After the fall, Will is a mess of emotions. Granted, that’s how it should be, if he was going to be on the run with Hannibal Lecter of all people. He feels that he’s more surprised that they lived rather than who he ended up with as an accomplice. 

_Accomplice, Will? Is that all I am to you?_ The voice slithers in his mind, and Will tries to shut it away but to no avail.

No, Will thinks. He’s much more. Hannibal has his heart in a tight grip, it would appear, the long fingers wrapped around the redness. It reminds him that his heart can only ever thrum under Hannibal’s hands. He wonders what it would be like if Hannibal loosened his hold.

They end up in this bright house, in a small city in Chile. It’s like rural Virginia at its best, where you could see the mountains and trees and feel the chill in the air. They’re far from Jack as it gets, but he tries not to think about it. 

The house is beautiful, reminiscent of Hannibal in a different way, except this time, with wood surfaces, large rustic bookshelves, a step removed from the morbid house in Baltimore, yet Hannibal in all its elegance. The trees around them reach sky high, cocooning them in their house. There are no weird metaphor filled paintings, broken skulls, or cobwebs spun to capture empaths in this place. Just open windows, clean air pushing through them, like everything about them in the open is finally set free.

Or so Will thinks. He doesn’t know when it started but it was probably when Hannibal was removing the stitches on his face. It felt nice to feel Hannibal’s own knuckles knock against his face, and the wind blowing in gently from the big windows, the glass pane glinting across the floor to reflect a small rainbow in their library. 

They haven’t really touched either after the cliff except to fix their own bodies, or help each other into the boat Hannibal had procured for them to set sail. They haven’t really grasped each other like they did that night, and Will wonders if Hannibal ever thinks about this, too, how there’s this gap between them and that night, like they took a step forward and then took a step back, almost shyly, if anything. 

Will is sitting quietly, when Hannibal’s left hand comes down to pick up the small scissors he has laid across in their first aid kit, balanced precariously across Will’s knees. Will looks down to track his movement, and Hannibal tuts, his right hand still holding the black thread pinched between his thumb and forefinger, and moves his face back up but not before Will catches sight of Hannibal’s ring finger, and his heart jolts, and everything he ate in the morning (pancakes and eggs, something french to Hannibal) feels like it’s about to come back up.

“Will?” Hannibal asks. He notices the tension that is suddenly thrumming through Will’s body, even if it’s small. Hannibal notices everything, Will thinks. 

Will’s mouth is dry and he doesn’t want to look again, but he does, pushing against Hannibal’s fingers, and sees the ring finger, and it’s comedic, when a sound not unlike the Kill Bill siren starts pulsing through his brain. He doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry.

“Will. What’s wrong? Did I pull something?” Hannibal lets go of the black string that’s threaded through Will’s entire right side of his face, and Will swallows, his heart pumping erratically. 

“Nothing.” He lies, hoping his heart would stop stammering or at least not go into a fit. Hannibal watches him for a moment, and looks like he’s not going to accept the lie, when he knows how Will looks like when he lies, and then — picks up the scissors again with his left hand. He continues.

_If I am to be Bluebeard's wife, I would have preferred to be the last._

No, it’s not nothing. That’s kind of where the grudge sprouted.

*

They continue to live in the house with all its windows, through their healing and aftermath of that violent night, beating against the waves. After the stitches are removed from Will’s face, though, he can’t stop thinking about Bedelia. It’s like some live wire is tripped in his brain, and his brain being what it is, _won’t shut up_.

He knows why it bothers him. While, yes, he’s the one here that is with Hannibal finally and not _her_ , he still can’t help but feel some kind of way about the rings Bedelia and Hannibal wore after that night in Baltimore, with the blood gushing through the doors and his stag wounded, breathing heavily on the ground, and _god_. The most important part, Abigail and her twice sliced neck she didn’t deserve _both_ times.

He doesn’t understand how he had to live with Abigail dead in his hands and Bedelia left with her whole body intact. It felt unjust. Like Hannibal playing a cruel trick on him.

_It’s because you deserve it._

I don’t, Will thinks. I don’t, I don’t — does he? What else did he have to give to Hannibal? He gave _everything_.

If Hannibal notices his tense behavior, and Will is sure he notices, he doesn’t say anything. They continue their path of not touching, making breakfast, lunch, and dinner together, taking walks, reading books — not all intellect, some of them mysteries that make Will miss the FBI in a weird twisted way. He was good at his job.

They spend a lot of their time in the kitchen, because Hannibal enjoys teaching, and he’s going to teach Will how to cook if it’s the last thing they do. Yes, also, because this is a tiny stepping stool — by mutual silent acknowledgement — before they move on to what they know best: to drag through flesh and cut clean through bone with their own teeth and nothing else.

It’s coming, and Will knows, and he wants it. But that’s what’s easy — what’s hard is he still thinks about the ring on Hannibal’s left hand, the one he felt against the back of his head in Florence after he got shot, the one he saw at the Verger farms. It’s all relative. Is it petty? Will doesn’t know. He just knows it hurts, like he’s being gutted and slit down the middle like one of his fish he catches. 

He wonders where the ring is now, if it’s in the FBI evidence locker, or if Hannibal kept it like some kind of lovely trinket. It makes Will want to throw up his lunch this time (some kind of fancy fish fry that he can’t remember the name of).

They go like this for a couple of weeks, almost polite, if it weren’t for Will’s inner despair flaring up every few hours and Hannibal watching him from time to time. It comes to a head when after 3 months of Level 3 nightmares, it cranks to a Level 10. 

They sleep in different rooms, right next to each other, their good mornings and good nights served in the living room after dinner. Of course, it could be more, and Will longs to step into the same bedroom as Hannibal, but now he’s not so sure.

The nightmare comes immediately when Will’s head hits the pillow, and he falls into an abyss, dark and velvet by touch. 

The dream is vivid, as he stands on the same bluff across the ocean in Virginia. He doesn’t know it’s a nightmare until he looks up and sees Bedelia and Hannibal at the edge before the cliff. His heart sinks, and he doesn’t know he’s saying, no no no No No, NO, at Hannibal until Hannibal moves his head to the side, not looking Will in the eye, and asks, “Why not?” 

“Please,” Will says, desperately. “Don’t —” His voice chokes, and he doesn’t even know if he can continue.

Bedelia interrupts. “Use your words, Will.” And Hannibal leans toward her, nosing at her neck, smelling deeply, something Will doesn’t know he wants for himself until he sees it in this dream.

It’s bizarre, because while Will knows it’s a dream, and _not real_ , it can’t stop his throat from seizing, and tears from pricking his eyes. He sees the figures of Bedelia and Hannibal swim in front of him and he has to wipe his eyes.

He tries again.

“Please,” he says, like a beg. Hannibal doesn’t even flinch or look in his direction. “Don’t leave me. Don’t go.”

And at this, like he didn’t even hear Will, Hannibal looks at Bedelia, and says, “See? This is all I ever wanted for you, Bedelia. For both of us.” He looks Bedelia straight in the eye as he says this.

And Will’s heart, god, it hurts, and he wants to run at Hannibal and scream and tell him, _please, stop_ , but instead — 

Bedelia, with blood over her mouth, her blonde hair curling around the jagged hole in her face, says to Hannibal, “It’s beautiful.” 

Then — 

They both go over the cliff together. 

Will’s vision blurs, and he doesn’t realize he’s screaming himself hoarse until he wakes up on a chilled night in Chile, in his bed, the sound still echoing, the trees whispering against the window. He’s thrashing in his bed, and he feels a tight grip on his wrist, and he looks up at Hannibal, his body leaning over him in his bed.

He snatches his wrist back. “No, please, no.” He feels sweaty and his clothes are drenched, as well as the bedsheets. He’s not something Hannibal should want to comfort.

“Will —” Hannibal says, his voice rough from sleep, and reaches out for him again, but Will edges away from him in his bed. Hannibal looks like he rushed over, his hair mussed, and no gown thrown over his pajamas, his bare torso gleaming in the moonlight, the grey and black hair trailing down his stomach.

Will shuts his eyes to avoid looking at Hannibal, with his bare chest and soft eyes and beautiful mouth, and says in a small voice, “Please leave.” There’s a moment where he thinks Hannibal won’t listen to him, and it’s long, but after a bit, the door opens and shuts and it’s quiet. Hannibal in his way, is still giving him choices.

It’s a long time before Will can close his eyes again and he’s holding his wrist not unlike the way Hannibal held his in order to fall asleep again. 

*

After that night, Will acts like all of it didn’t happen. Hannibal looks like he wants to bring the nightmare up the next day, but after a minute, takes Will’s cue. It almost goes back to normal, but Will knows he needs to deal with it, even if it involves making Hannibal admit he wanted Bedelia on the cliff more than he wanted him. He doesn’t know why his brain makes that obvious conclusion, considering, again, they’re both in Chile together — no Bedelia to be found — but it soothes him in a way to make him feel less, because maybe, that’s where he always belonged on Hannibal’s food chain. It’s cheering, in its morbidity. 

They’re in the kitchen one day, a rare sunny afternoon. The kitchen is one of Hannibal’s favorite places in the house, obviously, but Will is still warming up to it, not used to spending time in a place solely for cooking.

The kitchen is painted in alligator green, with light mint marble on its counters. Hannibal even keeps limes out like some kind of decoration and it makes it even more green, like he needs to outdo the colors. Will can see how aesthetically pleasing it may look, and it is, when he looks and sees the bright windows shining down on Hannibal like some kind of angel when he’s explaining how to make stock with bones, his hands still clean after all the juices from the meat slid away. 

Once they’re done, they’re cleaning everything up while the stock is slowly bubbling on the stove, and Hannibal pours them some wine, in these wine glasses, that are lined with, yes, green, around the rim.

Will is deciding how to bring it up. He knows it’s eating at him in an impossibly healthy way, and it’s making him have nightmares about Hannibal leaving him, even though he knows that won’t happen. 

_It could._

Sometimes, Will can’t argue with the percent of him that is in disbelief that Hannibal is with him of all people. Some part of him sees himself as something other, and why, out of all people, did Hannibal choose him? Even if Hannibal was part of that other, both him and Will encased on the same side.

So in his Will way, he bluntly asks over the edge of his wine glass, “What did you do with my wedding ring?”

Hannibal stills, significant in his movement, his wine glass tilting the dark pool inside it. His mouth twitches, like Will told a dumb joke, but his eyes show something else. It’s a deep maroon ravine that Will could fall into, and the ravine is angry, its claws out.

“It’s gone,” Hannibal finally says.

“Gone? Like in the ocean, gone?”

“No,” Hannibal tilts his head, considering Will. “Gone as in wrenched off your finger the moment I could.”

God. Will shouldn’t feel horribly happy about it but he keeps his tone even as he replies, “What if I wanted it back?”

Hannibal looks at him. “What is this about, Will?” He doesn’t beat around the subject, something he left behind at the eroding bluff. His tone is even too but Will sees beyond it, the darkness volcanic.

And maybe Will makes a mistake, despite seeing that eruption, because he says, “Maybe I want my ring back.” He doesn’t know why he says it, when it’s not _true_ , like he’s aching for a fight. And maybe he is. 

“And Molly?” Hannibal asks. 

“What about her?” Will drops his wine glass on the counter and turns to lean against it, his hands gripping the edge. He looks Hannibal in the eye.

“Do you want her back?” Hannibal asks casually, like they’re discussing the weather.

Will stutters, but if this is the path he forged, he needs to see it through. He needs to know if Hannibal wants him and not the ghost version of Bedelia that lives in his head, rent-free now.

“Maybe I do.”

Hannibal’s eyes glitter, like he’s deciding to humor him. Will sees the darkness behind his gaze, blooming out of bounds. Yes, this might have been a mistake.

“Tell me, Will. Molly.” A pause. “You think she deserves to live?” 

“I do.” 

Hannibal leans in, and says, “I _don’t_.” His teeth are sharp as he says this, his fingers tightening around the stem of his wine glass. “I could have her strung up by tomorrow if I wanted, her heart in my hand for you to eat by sundown,” he says, his voice dark. “You think protection placed her somewhere I could not find?”

Will swallows. Hannibal is gazing at him and he feels like he’s caught in a trap by a demon shaped thing in the night.

“It’s not easy to hide from me, Will. You know this.” Hannibal takes a sip of wine, and he licks his lips, a small glide of blood red wine from the corner of his mouth. “And the heart would taste excellent once I’m finished cooking it for you.”

“You won’t touch her,” Will shot at him. His battle about Bedelia is forgotten now, because he’s thinking about the woman that he knew for three years, albeit the fake family he chose for himself in the midst of missing _Hannibal_ , of all people, but no one gets to touch that part of his life. It was unblemished, mostly.

There is a glint in Hannibal’s eye, and in an imperceptible flash, his arm reaches out, and Will, without thinking, lifts a hand from the counter and punches him in the face. Hannibal takes the punch gracefully, and there’s a loud noise where Will’s fist meets his mouth. 

There’s a silent beat, where Hannibal sets his glass down on the counter and wipes the smear of blood from his lip with his finger. The sun from the window blinking across Hannibal’s cheekbones, and he doesn’t look like himself as he stretches a finger out and stares at the blood that’s on his fingertip. _I was with him behind the veil_ , he remembers Bedelia saying, but Will’s already seen over and beyond it, and has been _in it_ , the impossible iron curtain that Hannibal opened up to only him. Now, though, Hannibal looks like some other emotion Will’s empathy can’t pick up.

And then — Hannibal moves. He grabs the back of Will’s neck with one hand, and the other comes up to bend his left arm back and behind him, thankfully, the shoulder that isn’t on the mend. Will huffs out a grunt as Hannibal forces his head down to face the kitchen floor, the diagonal lines of the tiles facing him. Will would like to say he never saw it coming but a tiny part of him wanted this; the strength, the push over shove, the fight. _I was looking for a fight_ , Will thinks, _maybe I wanted him to hurt me, maybe I want him to touch me to hurt and maim and pick me apart._

_Maybe I want him to put me back together again._

There’s silence as Will’s head is facing towards the tile. He doesn’t even hear the birds outside, chirping as they always did in the morning. He just feels the sun on the back of his shirt, and the hard grip Hannibal has on his neck.

“Hannibal,” Will huffs out, his hair a curtain around his face, as he feels the blood rushing to his temple, “you can’t hurt —” but Hannibal doesn’t let him finish, only shoves his head further down and runs his hand down to Will’s left, and picks it up to slam it on the counter to hold it straight so that there’s a tight pain across his shoulder. His breath stutters.

Hannibal’s own left hand is on top of Will’s on the counter, the light green marble beneath both their palms, Will’s rough hand under Hannibal’s elegant. 

“And why is that?” Hannibal says now, and he doesn’t even sound out of breath, no matter how many years he could be locked away. Hannibal will be in shape to pick up any one, and it reminds Will that his own body was the last Hannibal picked up before he got locked up and the very first. He feels his body shudder.

“Because I don’t want you to.” 

“And you think I’m going to do what you want?” Hannibal sounds curious, and even though Will can’t see his face, he can imagine the interested look he usually gives Will when Will is honest with him.

“You want to. You don’t have to. But I know you want to.” 

“I’m not sure you’re correct about this one, Will. If I could tear your ring off your still ocean drenched body, I’m sure I can tear her apart the same.” Hannibal’s voice does sound sure.

Will closes his eyes for a moment and then opens them. He pushes up against Hannibal’s grip on his neck so that the pain can be elevated from his shoulder, and Hannibal lets up a litte, enough for Will to be looking down at their palms directly now. He still didn’t know why their kitchen had to be this green but it was a sharp contrast to both their hands now, Hannibal’s own left pushing down on his. 

For a moment, he gazes down at their hands, Hannibal still behind him, waiting. He sees his ring finger, the impression of the wedding ring he wore with Molly, barely there. He doesn’t miss it and his heart is content with that fact, despite the fact that they’re in this predicament over Will’s overall feelings about it. 

His eyes then move to Hannibal’s own ring finger, and in a flash, the pain returns, surging, sharp against his heart, like a stake driving him through there. He’s not sure why he brought up Molly to start the conversation to begin with but it doesn’t help. The velvet dream he had a few nights ago comes back, the thick wooled feeling in his head, the same despair, the begging, and the full stench of desperation.

He remembers Florence, how Hannibal wore his own ring there, to represent _her_. It may not have been a real marriage, but the fact that Hannibal even tried to make it any semblance of real cuts through Will like a knife. _It should have been me._

Without thinking, Will says, “And what about Bedelia?” He’s still looking at their hands, intertwined across the green.

“Bedelia?” Hannibal sounds surprised, but not enough that his grip lessens. 

“Do I —” Will closes his eyes. “I have a claim on her.” He swallows, his throat hurting him a little. Then, in a tiny voice, “Don’t I?”

There’s a beat — and then Hannibal lets go of Will’s neck, and he automatically straightens, his shoulder tweaking a little. Their hands don’t move however, and Will dares to look up to his left and Hannibal fills his vision, but he’s not looking at Will, he’s looking at their intertwined hands, too. 

He waits for Hannibal to say anything. They’re both standing so close, with Hannibal a little behind Will, their left arms in tandem. 

Then — 

“Her ring was meant for you, Will.” He says it quietly and gently, like he knows what Will’s dream was made of. Will’s blood rushes back from his head to his stomach if that were even possible.

“But it wasn’t, Hannibal. You still — you still left me —”, Will’s voice shakes, and he moves to yank his left hand back but Hannibal pushes down even harder, making Will stay. There’s a dark look across Hannibal’s face, like he could make him do more than stay.

As if he had been flicked on, the floodgates open for Will, and he finds it impossible to stop.

“You still decided to take Bedelia in the end. You still decided to kill Abigail. I _called_ to warn you, and you still decided to take her away from me,” Will says, his voice grating, like he had to dredge up these words from the memory palace in his brain, the room where he decided to lock up every and all feeling for Hannibal, the good and the bad.

“You decided to take yourself away from me,” Will says, and his voice cracks, and it sounds horrible in this stupid tiny green kitchen where the sun shines impossibly on them. “I don’t even care about you gutting me. You still — ” He can’t even look at Hannibal as he opens the wound he’s been carrying in his stomach forever, only decides to say this to their left hands and their stupid ring fingers, something he didn’t realize held that much vehemence for him, Molly’s ring and all. He then exhales. “You still left me. You left me with her body in my hands, and you didn’t leave Bedelia with a _scratch_ , Hannibal.”

He wants to take his hand back, mirroring the other night, and tell Hannibal to leave the kitchen, but he needs to talk about it. He needs to confirm that it’s _him_ Hannibal wants, not her.

“How do you think that would make me feel?” Will says, his voice breaking again.

Hannibal’s right hand comes up. Will still isn’t looking at him but Hannibal reaches up, and wipes something off of Will’s face, and it’s only until Hannibal sticks his thumb in his own mouth that Will realizes he had been crying. 

Hannibal’s watching him, the edge of his thumb skating his teeth, like Will’s tears are nothing but a delicacy and there’s that same look again, after Will had punched him. 

“You weren’t ready, Will. Not for me, not for us,” he says, and he tilts his head so that he looks Will in the eyes now, his hand coming back up to stroke his cheek. Will squeezes his eyes shut, and without thinking, moves his face so that his mouth is in Hannibal’s palm. Their left hands are still interlinked on the counter, and the line of his body is hard against Hannibal’s. He’s in the cradle of Hannibal’s arms, a place that holds him not by choice, but by the pull that is between him. Will’s mind may go in different directions, but his body will always come back to Hannibal’s own.

“How do you know?”

“I made a place for you and Abigail. And you didn’t want it. You didn’t want — ” Hannibal says, and Will can hear the pause in his breath. “You didn’t want us.”

Will, with his eyes still closed, says. “I wanted you both more than anything in the world. Even after. You — you killed her.” He breathes slowly again Hannibal’s palm, and whispers, “I still wanted to run away with you.” Hannibal’s thumb comes up to rub against Will’s lips and he can feel the wetness on him from his own cheeks.

“Will,” Hannibal says. He stops and then says, “Will”, again, his voice rough. It’s not like Hannibal to be at a loss for words. It reminds Will of the cliffside where he couldn’t look at Will in the eye properly after they had slain the dragon, unlike Hannibal in his dreams looking Bedelia straight in the eye. 

After a moment, Hannibal lets go of his left hand, and their arms swing down to their side away from the green marble. Hannibal is still cradling Will’s cheek, the thumb rubbing over the jagged scar on Will’s face and Will. Will opens his eyes.

He looks at Hannibal’s own maroon ones, the sun still shining on him. Maybe the sun is saying something now, not clouding Hannibal in darkness like they used to. It was almost like the sun would skip Hannibal sometimes back in Baltimore, and Will should have figured it out that Hannibal was wrong for him on that principle alone, but unlike the sun, he wanted Hannibal day and night, not just when the sun went down and he would go back into his little house and into his big nightmares.

In the midst of all the green surrounding them, with a jolt, Will realizes what the look on Hannibal’s face is. He’s looked at Will like this before, but there was always something there, an impenetrable block, like there was one percent Hannibal had to hold himself from showing. 

Now, Will’s empathy blooms, and the pendulum swings, and he’s holding all of Hannibal’s love in his arms, and it _rushes_ at him. Yes, the love is dark, and it’s bloody, and it’s full of twisty things and thick veins and guts, and the blood is smeared across his forearms, gushing over the edges. Anyone else would be _horrified_ , and would never take a second look at Hannibal again, but Will is Will and these are all things Will will not and ever do now.

He is who he is and he knows who he loves, and it’s Hannibal, in his stag filled glory, and the halo not so bright, but instead red, black in the moonlight. It’s Hannibal, with his sharp teeth and smooth cheekbones, and how he was with or without the veil.

They stand like that, with Hannibal’s love moving his way through him, and it’s a direct mirror, the way his empathy can recognize Hannibal’s feelings versus his own. The both beings intertwine and it’s weird they can co-exist, but they are there, nonetheless. They were made for each other, Will thought. It was true, wasn’t it? 

“I won’t touch Molly, Will.” Hannibal says, his voice cutting through Will’s thoughts. And he leans in, pushes his nose against a notch in Will’s neck, and smells deeply, his other hand coming to settle in Will’s hair. He’s holding Will’s whole head in his hands now, and Will can feel calmness settling around him now, and doesn’t feel an ounce of fear, even if Hannibal could crush him like the monster he is. Maybe it’s the decision Hannibal has come to about Molly, maybe it’s the realization of seeing into Hannibal’s love, _finally_ , that pushes Hannibal’s ring out of his mind. 

Will also knows it's because Hannibal is smelling him like Will wants him to, the touch soft, his nose sharp and a little cold at the tip.

“But, Will,” Hannibal says, pulling back, his eyes impossibly black, “Bedelia is ours.” And this shouldn’t send a thrill through Will’s stomach but it does and just like that, his knees buckle, and Hannibal just lets him crash into him, holding him up with nothing but his arms, gripping across his back. It’s reminiscent of their hold over the ocean but Will has not one bit of strength in his body, and he’s just up by Hannibal’s own crushing grip. It’s comforting.

He lets himself be held by Hannibal for a few minutes, and it feels like a long time, and he wants to stand there until the sun sets, so he can see Hannibal in the orange glow.

“You haven’t let me touch you like this since the bluff,” Hannibal says, with his nose still deep in Will’s neck. It doesn’t seem like he wants to leave that spot, all but happy to be the stone pillar keeping Will grounded.

“I was angry,” his voice muffled in Hannibal’s shoulder, like what Hannibal said to him was normal, as if they always had some kind of physical relationship even before, all _this_. Like the whole time, the not touching thing was waiting on Will.

“And now?”

Will huffs. “Still angry.” Hannibal laughs, a sound that Will wants to hold alongside all the blood in his arms.

“If I could, Will,” Hannibal says quietly once his laughter fades, “I would make you a thousand rings.” Will’s heart lurches. 

“And I would never have taken Abigail away from you.” At this, Will turns his face fully into Hannibal’s shoulder and lets himself cry. His heart breaks, because he knows if he made his decisions better, he could have been here with her and Hannibal, and he wouldn’t have to deal with any wrath over Bedelia or broken promises to Molly, to Jack, to Alana, to anyone else, and it would have felt. It would have felt just. It would have felt _good_. 

Hannibal gave him a child, and Will didn’t understand at the time that she was theirs. It hurts, a gash deep into his psyche, permanent now. He’ll carry it always, this pain.

He lets himself cry into the circle of Hannibal’s arms, and Hannibal lets him, with nothing but a soft caress across his hair, and over his back. 

The tears feel horrible, across his scar on his face, like they have to run over a speed bump on their trajectory to the bottom, and if anything, it makes him feel worse, but a strange kind of worse, because he’s held tight by the person who understands him the best. It makes him feel buoyed by the person he loves and is loved by, no matter where they were, from the blood stained ground of Hannibal’s house in Baltimore to the moving oceans over the bluff. 

_I’ve never known myself as well as I know myself when I’m with him._

And it’s true. It’s all true.

And in that, with Will’s tears, and his pain, and the grudge he didn’t know he had underneath the bloody cavity of his heart, feels okay. He didn’t realize he was holding it in, after all these years, all the feelings about Bedelia and most importantly, Abigail. But the memory palace opens, and the rooms breathe a bit. The rooms he shares with Hannibal widens and it looks like their green kitchen. Theirs.

He moves his feet on the ground, finds some traction, and pulls enough strength to stand against Hannibal now, still in the clutch of his arms.

His face is wet, and Hannibal looks around for a bit, no doubt looking for a napkin or one of his dumb fancy handkerchiefs, but in the next second, looks down at the bottom of his own beige sweater, and reaches down to lift the edge. He uses that to wipe Will’s face and it’s funny to see the wetness spread across in some kind of Rorschach imprint on the bottom.

Will laughs. Hannibal just continues to wipe his face, making sure to be gentle under Will’s eyes, where he probably is starting to look puffy.

“Will I be seeing you next week?” Hannibal asks, his mouth twitching into his version of his smile, as he wipes a tendril of hair away from Will’s eyes with his other hand.

“Very funny,” Will says, bringing up a hand to wipe his mouth and Hannibal’s eyes stall there on his mouth.

Suddenly, Hannibal grips his chin between his thumb and forefinger, and leans closer. His grip is impatient and strong. It feels like a chasm, this deep wide thing, the next step in who they were together, but Will lets himself move close too, and closes the gap between them since the fall off the cliff. 

Hannibal kisses him, pressing himself fully against Will’s mouth, and both his hands come up to cup Will’s face, and it feels, god, it feels good, and soft, and the slide of their mouths is obscene in a way. The chasm is full of them, wrapped around each other, and Hannibal doesn’t break the kiss at all, only once to bite at the edge of his jaw, and suck roughly. It feels like what killing with Hannibal is like, and the thought makes his stomach jump and burn, and his breath hitch.

They kiss harshly again for the next minute, and when they break, Hannibal’s eyes are dark and full of want, and the next kiss he places is on Will’s face scar, delicate and sweet. It’s good. Will doesn’t feel doubt at all about his place in Hannibal’s life anymore, his desire strong in his stomach, and he feels it radiating from Hannibal even stronger. 

Hannibal, with his hands still cupped around Will’s face, says, “I feel like we should start with Bedelia’s leg. It would make a good roast.” His smile is a scary and beautiful thing.

And Will smiles the exact same smile, because it’s all he ever wanted. Hannibal is all he ever really needs.

**Author's Note:**

> whooo that's the longest fic i ever wrote. idk how you babies do more than 5000 words!! so much props to you all. 
> 
> a few notes:
> 
> 1) who knows if will feels this deeply about hannibal's ring (i would like to think they're that possessive about each other), but i saw [this gif](https://whenzombiesattack.tumblr.com/post/615670918647332864), and i couldn't stop thinking about it and that's what inspired this !  
> 2) the song title is from 'ocean' by alice phoebe lou, which i coincidentally found from this [amazing hannibal/will mix](https://whenzombiesattack.tumblr.com/post/613588893132079104) by the-white-diamondd which is AMAZING. i totally recommend. this song never fails to make me cry.  
> 3) the house they live in is actually dakota johnson's house, from the spread in [arch digest](https://www.architecturaldigest.com/story/step-inside-dakota-johnsons-midcentury-modern-home) — she is my girl and i looove her and i want this house for myself and yes maybe it's too cute for hannibal+will but i wanted to imagine them there, full of love and hope and always killing ppl and like 10 dogs and CATS, cuz we know hannibal is a cat person (and so am i)
> 
> i'm [here](https://whenzombiesattack.tumblr.com/) on tumblr! thank u for taking out the time to read <3


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